the Blood of the Pure
by Wobble
Summary: Harry and Draco. Two souls.


**Title: **El Sangre de la Pureza/the Blood of the Pure

**Author:** Wobble

**Rating: **R

**Warnings: **Suicide

**Summary: **Harry and Draco. Two souls.

**Notes: **This is not a Spanish language fic. I just thought it would be cool to use Spanish in the title and occasionally throughout the story. I put nothing in Spanish that is important to plot. Also, I am not a Spanish speaker, but my Spanish teacher did help me with these phrases. If they are improperly used and you know so, please let me know. Reviews my life source.

_El Sangre de la Pureza_

Draco had a thing with numbers, with patterns, with repetition. He wrote me a haiku once, cause he loved numbered, patterned things like that. And he loved writing. He absolutely loved it. No one ever knew, I think, that he would scribble words in the margins of his notes or the rough drafts of his essays were often just reasons for him to write stories. He was good too, good enough to actually have made it. But the promising are never truly promised such. They had potential, but often, liberty does not mean dignity. _El chico no tuvo la libertad._

He wrote me a haiku once. I don't know if it was about me; it did not have a title or a real purpose, other than to show me that yes, he could achieve. His soul was screaming while his face was calm. I felt pity for him. I felt hatred. I felt love. I felt confused.

_I think I hate you  
__But then again, why should I?  
__Hatred is often love._

Sometimes, I felt that his patterns betrayed him. The haikus - they felt unfinished or on the edge, just on the brink of greatness. He just needed three more syllables - that was it! - to get what he really wanted. The numbers, the patterns, no matter how many times he repeated them, they failed him repeatedly. And I think, if he had actually had a chance, they would have continued to fail him. They would have continued to spite him and show him that nothing was perfect, nothing was predictable. Not even his love of patterns could show him that much. _él fue muy desconsolado._

_

* * *

_

_La vida es solamente infierno._

Someone once told me that I would find love and it would only betray me. And I suppose, in a way, what Draco did was betrayal. Betrayal in the highest form, but perhaps, he had no other choice. No one really knows what really happened, that night, that dark night, the night that my heart was ripped in two and I knew that I would never know the end of the pattern.

There would never be a period at the end of a sentence, just a long stream of dots, never to finish, never to end, and yet, never to begin again...

* * *

Draco never seemed healthy. Tall, lithe, extremely thin - he had taut muscles in his arms and legs, the long, stringy ones that flex painfully with each catlike movement, a clumsy gracefulness as he stretched across the floor. Muscles that were soft and flexible, moveable. He was weak. Mentally, physically, emotionally. He was easily taken advantage. Each word he spoke sent off a shiver of defenselessness; he radiated a thousand silky tendrils of vulnerability, that spun a gigantic web of hurt and deception. He couldn't keep himself safe enough to know that no matter what he did, he would always be a scared little a boy. 

A little boy running from something that had stopped chasing a long time ago.

Nothing was ever after Draco. He was never threatened. But in his head, it was a pattern. Hurt him once, shame on you. Hurt him twice, shame on him. Hurt him thrice, he would never let that happen because he would run away.

* * *

They found him and he was cold. His blonde hair was still wet from the shower. On his fingertips was the trace smudging of ink. On his chest, a piece of parchment, small and tattered, but beautiful. His fingertips had smudged it. His fingertips, wet with his tears. And they said there was no hope for him, that he was gone. I pressed my forehead to his bare, cold chest and heaved a heavy sigh. My heart was breaking within my chest.

* * *

His headstone is just as he would have wanted. A pattern. A repititon. And beautiful. With a haiku. 

He loved haikus. They were so regimented. I often wondered why he loved that - that conformity, that unchanging way. I think it was because it was something he could identify, time and time again. It never changed. It was uniformity, but unique. Something he could touch. Something that was tangible, for once in his life. His fears were no longer fears, but realities - realities that spun themselves into lines of words, 5, 7, 5, 17, 17, 17, no matter what. It was always the same. His reality remained and he was safe within that.

But safety, perhaps, wasn't enough. Safety had betrayed him. The world was cold, out alone without the safety and warmth of school hallways. Haikus were not enough to shelter him. What could shelter him?

No one is ever safe.

**_

* * *

_**

_If love truly is false_  
_Then let my tears be untrue  
__Nothing could help you._

_love, Harry _

* * *

I was never good at saying goodbye. I felt as if I was tearing myself from someone so definitely that I didn't think I could ever find a way to mutter it truly. I never once said goodbye to Draco, never once waved or saluted or even muttered a loving, "love you, bye." I never told him parting words, I just said, "I'll see you soon. Very soon." 

I like to think that Draco is somewhere. And I am still with him. Because I could never truly say goodbye.

_

* * *

_


End file.
